some
cover their maps with pins
stick a slender stalk of metal
into Delhi
"Someday I will go there,"
and their heads are dusted
by aeroplanes
low to the earth


for me, it's strings
every city
strung between
every city.
an experiment in spatial relations
a lamp clicks on
I hear shallow footsteps
and arch my feet
exactly;
as her sole pads against wood


on the map,
between us,
there is a single string
and there are infinite strings
a string for a breath
one for an inhalation
and one when we exhale.
we are pinpointing our locations
holding cups to our ears
and whispering.
get enough strings,
and our rudimentary telephone
will vibrate;
I can hear you sewing.
I can hear you breathe.